


Make Your Choice

by Kyra_Bane



Series: Kinktober 2020 [The Old Guard] [8]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Jealousy, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Only One Bed, Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, get it together, only a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane
Summary: Sharing a bed is getting to Yusuf, who still is not certain how Nicolò feels about him.A rash decision may be the thing to force Nicolò’s hand, intended or not…
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Kinktober 2020 [The Old Guard] [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930153
Comments: 20
Kudos: 397





	Make Your Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gentlesleaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlesleaze/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Across the Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844949) by [Kyra_Bane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane). 



> kinktober day 7 prompt: sharing a bed
> 
> thanks to gentlesleaze for requesting the pairing/prompt, i hope there is enough pining in here!! 
> 
> follows on from my day 1 fic, (Not) Sight Unseen and day 3, Across the Fire... you don't have to read those, i guess, but everything will make more sense if you do.

It is all getting a bit much for Yusuf.

He had thought, after the first time, that Nicolò would _insist_ they should talk about it, that he would be so riddled with guilt that he would be able to do nothing else.

Only, Nicolò had not said a word. He had been gone before Yusuf had woken for fajr and had returned after, hair damp, his smile soft. They had not spoken about it that day and Yusuf had thought about broaching the subject when they lay down to sleep that night, but that had not seemed like a good time, either.

Instead, he had waited. 

And waited.

And then when he had worked himself up again, which was entirely his own fault, of course (though he cannot help it; his eyes are drawn to Nicolò’s strong hands, to the way the muscles in his arms tighten when he swings his sword, to the ever-shining light in his eyes), he had excused himself one night, like before – and, like before, he had heard Nicolò’s hitching breaths along with him.

It has been six months since that first time and now Yusuf is lying on his back, hand on his cock, and his grip tightens when he hears Nicolò whimper. They did not speak, last time – a sudden fit of pique had overcome Yusuf, when he had heard Nicolò rustling around on his bedroll – and that was the first time he had seen Nicolò concerned, the next morning, eyeing Yusuf as though he might disappear.

“What are you thinking of, Nicolò?” Yusuf asks tonight. 

Nicolò hums. They have never done this in daylight, never with the fire still burning, and Yusuf craves the sight of him. He has seen Nicolò naked, naturally – they have been travelling together too long for him to have not. But it would be different to see him in the throes of desire, even if he did not touch.

“I _ache,_ down there,” Nicolò says, and oh, he is already so close, Yusuf can tell. “I want to be full, I want to feel his hands on me, holding me where he wants me…”

He lets out a choked-off moan and Yusuf breathes deeply through his nose. He still has not asked who Nicolò thinks of – perhaps it is no one at all. 

He hopes Nicolò thinks of him, but after all this time, it seems unlikely. 

Still, he imagines it along with him; imagines digging bruises into Nicolò’s pale skin, considers how hot and tight he would be around him. He would have to go slow – he would never wish to cause Nico pain – but their bodies heal so quickly that he would likely be used to him in seconds. He would hold him down and he hopes the first time would be loving and gentle and everything Nicolò would want from him, but he suspects if he ever did get the chance, he would lose all semblance of patience very, _very_ quickly.

“Tell me,” Nicolò says, breathing hard now, “Tell me what you think of.”

Yusuf’s heart skips a beat. _This_ is new. He spreads his legs a little wider, slows the glide of his hand on his cock. “He’s beautiful,” he says and Nicolò’s breath hitches. “Not soft, not really, but pliable under my hands. And when I push him down he spreads his legs for me, begs for me, like he might just _die_ if I don’t fuck him, then and there.”

Nicolò groans. It’s a throaty sound and Yusuf shudders. He’s close – but then he always is, when they do this together.

“And then?” Nicolò asks. He sounds strained, like he’s holding off his own orgasm, and Yusuf licks his lips.

“And then I do. He’s already slick, already fingered himself open for me, so I can just slide right in. We fit together like we were made for each other and he tries to pull me deeper even as I fill him up because all we want is each other.”

“Fuck, _Yusuf,”_ Nicolò says and Yusuf keens, comes with a sudden, short shock, because it’s not only the first time he’s heard Nicolò curse when they’ve been doing this – it’s also the first time Nicolò has said his name.

From the sound of it, Nicolò has heard him, is stroking himself faster until he comes, too, his moan a noise that Yusuf will never tire of. He stares up at the sky. Every time they do this, he thinks he should go back around the fire. Nicolò is probably a boneless mess; he could lick him clean, coax him into sharing all his fantasies and work to make them come true–

Only, he can’t. He doesn’t know whether Nicolò was ever truly celibate, but he is certain he never had relations with a man, at any level. He has to take the lead from Nicolò on this and trust that he will get there.

“Good night, Nicolò,” he says.

Silence. Not just silence; a lack of noise that indicates Nicolò is thinking, before he replies, “Good night, Yusuf.” 

Yusuf is not sure how much longer he can take this.

***

He lasts through the rest of their journey, though he wakes up plastered to Nicolò’s back, hard as a rock, on more than one morning. If Nicolò notices, he does not say anything.

He lasts, too, when they are protecting a merchant’s caravan and are forced to share a cramped tent. Of course, that is easier – there are people enough around and although Yusuf has no qualms about exactly who he is, he knows others are more hesitant, even hostile. 

He lasts even through Nicolò’s increasingly curious glances, because a look is not intent; or at least, not yet. A romantic, optimistic part of him says it will be, in time: that they will be together so long that knowing how to love one another will come as easily as knowing how to breathe.

For now, there is still that space between them. Yusuf fears filling it with the depth of his own feelings and leaving no room for Nicolò’s. 

Occasionally, he does not think of it at all.

They travel from city to city, and when they reach this one, when they are told there is a room, yes, but it only has one bed, Yusuf does not hesitate in taking it. They are travel-worn, tired; it has been a long few months and he wants to rest.

Still, he eyes the floor when they enter the room. Aside from a handful of times, they have not spent the night apart in years, but that has always been a matter of choice. One bed is not a choice.

Nicolò lets him wash up first, though he, too, is dead on his feet, and then stumbles through his own ablutions. Yusuf sets out his bedroll and Nicolò turns, one eyebrow quirking at the sight.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought I would–”

Nicolò’s lips twitch. “Are you not too tired for that, tonight?”

“Not that! I thought you might like the bed.”

“I mean, I know we are safe here but if you do not wish to sleep beside me, you could–”

“I do,” Yusuf says without meaning to, an honest admission, and Nicolò smiles.

“Then get in bed, Yusuf,” he says, and the note of command in his voice has Yusuf nodding despite himself.

He supposes Nicolò has made the choice, then.

Yusuf settles on his side, pressed back against the wall, and Nicolò climbs into the bed in front of him a few minutes later. When Yusuf still maintains the distance between them, Nicolò huffs, reaching back until his fingers land on Yusuf’s arm.

He tugs him forward and Yusuf goes, sliding his arm around Nicolò’s waist. Only then does Nicolò appear to relax, all the tension seeping out of his neck and shoulders. Yusuf rests his forehead against the back of Nicolò’s neck.

“Good night, Yusuf,” Nicolò murmurs, halfway to sleep already now, it seems.

“Good night, habibi,” Yusuf replies.

He does not fall asleep until after Nicolò’s breathing has evened out. When he does, he stumbles immediately into a familiar scene. 

They have been having the dreams ever since their first deaths. They were one of the first things they connected over, actually; once they knew well enough how to communicate with each other, at least.

The two women are like them, Yusuf is sure. They are both warriors, and sometimes he feels their age so keenly, he wonders how they can bear it. His dreams are never coherent, flashes of death, of laughter, of fury and stolen moments and he wonders if he will meet them, one day.

Tonight is both familiar and not, all at once. 

He already knows the women are in love. Nicolò knows too, though they have not spoken of it. It is clear in the way they are when they are together, in the brush of skin Yusuf feels against the back of his hand, the bright close up of smiling eyes.

Tonight, they are celebrating their love. Yusuf cannot call it anything else. They kiss and he feels a phantom of it on his lips; hands roam and his skin prickles. He wakes when one bites the other on the thigh, then grins softly, and realises two things straight away.

He’s hard.

Nicolò is awake.

The only reason they both are apparent is because Nicolò has gone so still he does not appear to be breathing, except where he is pressing back against Yusuf, hips twitching.

Yusuf lets out a heavy breath and Nicolò turns in his arms.

“I saw–”

“I know,” Yusuf says and Nicolò kisses him. It’s frantic, messy, but Yusuf doesn’t have the sense to slow it because he can feel Nicolò pressed against him and he’s hard too, deliciously so. They rock together, pant into each other’s mouths, and when Yusuf squeezes Nicolò’s ass, Nicolò goes boneless, letting out a little whimper.

Something about that knocks Yusuf back to his senses. He lifts himself up and wonders when they rolled because Nicolò is spread out beneath him, hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep, lips swollen from where Yusuf bit him, at least once.

“The dream,” Yusuf says and Nicolò blinks once, twice.

“The dream?” he repeats.

“We are…” Yusuf waves a hand between them. “The dream. It got to us.”

Something like hurt flicks over Nicolò’s face. “Oh,” he says and his voice has gone small but Yusuf will not have him regret this, in the morning. “I thought…”

He chews his lip and Yusuf wants to kiss him again. He pushes the desire firmly aside. “It was the dream,” he says. He will have Nicolò make a conscious choice; there is too much to consider, otherwise. “We should sleep.”

Nicolò takes a deep breath, but nods. “Alright,” he says and when Yusuf climbs back to his place on the bed, Nicolò turns his back. Yusuf reaches to put his arm around him again but Nicolò tucks in on himself, all that tension back in his shoulders, and so he withdraws his hand.

He does not turn his back. He watches Nicolò’s breathing until he has to get up and pray.

***

They go to Malta not long after that. It is a pleasant island – more than pleasant, really – and it is not long before they carve out a quiet life for themselves. Yusuf knows it will not last forever, but he enjoys that there are people who know them here, that they have goats and chickens and a little house they can call their own.

Nicolò goes to the market every other day and almost always returns with a small treat for Yusuf; sweets or oil for his beard or quill pens and ink, so he can draw. He does, nightly, often as Nicolò prepares dinner. Sometimes, Nicolò’s eyes on him are heavy, so much so that Yusuf cannot breathe.

It has been months since that night in their bed and they still sleep side-by-side, Yusuf’s arm around Nicolò’s waist. Nicolò is always awake and out of bed before Yusuf, ostensibly to feed the goats, and Yusuf fears, one day, that their time is running out.

Maybe they need time apart, he thinks, as he watches Nicolò move deftly around this small space they share. Or maybe _he_ does… Nicolò does not wish to approach the subject, clearly, and if it is because he does not know how to let Yusuf down gently, then Yusuf can solve that problem himself.

Only, he does not wish to leave Nicolò alone, either. Anything could happen – and he trusts that Nicolò can take care of himself – but if something were to go terribly wrong, Yusuf would have no one to blame but himself.

They climb into bed that night and Nicolò makes a contented sound as Yusuf presses up behind him. 

“Are you going to the market tomorrow?” Yusuf asks. Nicolò’s ribs rise and fall under his arm.

“Yes.”

“Can I come, too?” Usually he would find something to do in the day; there is always something to be done. But if he is going to leave, then he would prefer to spend more time with Nicolò, first. 

It is counterintuitive and will make everything more painful, but he cannot help himself.

“Of course,” Nicolò says. He sounds surprised; probably because Yusuf is asking. It is not as though they have never gone to the market together before.

“Thank you,” Yusuf murmurs. 

He is sure Nicolò wants to say something else but he does not, and Yusuf sleeps lightly as a result. When he wakes before dawn, Nicolò is still in bed beside him. His brow is furrowed, even in sleep, and Yusuf wants to smooth the lines out with his fingers, kiss them away.

Instead, he climbs out of bed and prepares for fajr. 

Nicolò wakes sometime after that and they tend to their morning chores before setting out for the market just before midday. Yusuf knows Nicolò wants to ask what has changed, but he does not, and they spend the walk talking about erstwhile things: the goats, who all have individual personalities but one thing in common (they all vaguely dislike Nicolò), the good summer weather, what they might have for dinner…

The market is busy and they both get to work, separating only to find each other again. Nicolò is not quite as good at striking a bargain as Yusuf would like but he does appear to have improved from when they first met. Yusuf secures some baklava, which he knows Nicolò will enjoy after their dinner, but when he turns this time, Nicolò is nowhere to be seen.

Yusuf turns in a circle, then starts walking through the stalls. Nicolò would be easy enough to spot, in most other places, but Malta is such a mix of people that it takes Yusuf longer than he would like. 

When he finally does see Nicolò, he stops. He is speaking to a merchant – or a merchant’s son, perhaps, as the man is younger than both of them, albeit not by much. They clearly know each other, standing close, smiling, and when the stranger touches Nicolò on the arm, Nicolò does not push him away. 

It is clear Nicolò has been caught up in their conversation enough that he has forgotten Yusuf is there and Yusuf wonders if he should leave.

No. Nicolò is not being rude; Yusuf is being irrational. He sighs and walks toward them.

The stranger sees him first, smiles up at Nicolò, and Nicolò is beaming when he turns, making Yusuf feel twice as bad about his thoughts. 

“Yusuf!” Nicolò exclaims. “This is Amir. Amir, Yusuf.” 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Amir says and he seems to mean it. He speaks the same Arabic as Yusuf does, Yusuf notices, though he probably knows a handful of other languages, besides.

This becomes evident when he turns back to Nicolò, says something to him in Ligurian, far too fast for even Yusuf to follow. Nicolò shakes his head, the tips of his ears going pink, and Yusuf is not sure he wants to know what he is missing.

“I, uh, am going to head back,” he says, shifting the baklava from hand to hand. 

“Oh!” Nicolò nods. “Of course, we should go. It was good to see you again, Amir.”

Amir does not seem put off by Yusuf’s attitude – does not seem surprised by it, in fact. He says his goodbyes to both of them and Nicolò follows Yusuf back through the crowd in apparently high spirits. He chatters to Yusuf all the way home and Yusuf dwells on what he saw – Amir’s smile, that casual touch, obviously welcome, and the simple fact that Nicolò has never made it clear to Yusuf that he wants him. Wants more.

By the time they reach the house, Nicolò appears to have realised something is amiss; but it can wait until after the chores are done. Yusuf leaves the package of baklava on the table, his fingers sticky from it, even through the paper, and sets to helping. Hours later, everything is done and Yusuf stops Nicolò before he goes to make dinner.

“Yusuf, I am hungry–”

“Then have some of this,” Yusuf says and presses the baklava into Nicolò’s hands. “But we need to speak, first.”

Nicolò frowns and sits. Yusuf paces and so Nicolò eats a piece of the baklava, eyes fluttering shut at the first taste. Yusuf looks away, his mouth suddenly dry, and forces out, “I am going to leave.”

“We have to leave so soon?” Nicolò replies. He puts the baklava down, licks honey from his fingers. “I thought we would manage a few years more, at least.”

“No, Nicolò, _I_ am going to leave.”

“What?”

Yusuf shrugs, trying to look calm even though his heart is pounding and he almost can’t catch his breath. “I think it is time to… I should find those women we dream of. Bring them back here. You can stay, it is safe, and then we will all be reunited.”

Nicolò just stares at him, and the look on his face is similar to many of the times Yusuf stabbed him – shocked, and in pain – and Yusuf flees into the bedroom. He pulls out the bag he last used on their journey here. He needs to pack; now that he’s said it, he needs to be out by nightfall. 

Yusuf digs around for clothes – his clothes – and suddenly realises they’ve been sharing; they’re both of a height, both built similarly, and he isn’t sure what to take.

When he turns, Nicolò is looming in the doorway.

“You are really going to do this?” he asks. He sounds hurt and sad and _angry._

“You will be fine here, without me,” Yusuf replies. “You have friends here, you will pass a few years in peace…”

“You told me you would always be here for me.” 

That stops Yusuf in his tracks. It was not quite what he had intended by what he had said, but it was true all the same. 

“I cannot be,” he murmurs and he’s staring at his bag; he can’t look at Nicolò. “Not right now.”

“Why not?” 

Yusuf looks at Nicolò and Nicolò stares steadily back. Can he really not see it? Did he not _feel_ it, that night, how much Yusuf had wanted him – how much he has wanted him, even before Nicolò saw him with that stranger? 

“Because this is _killing me,_ Nicolò,” he all but shouts. “And I need a break, I need some time away so that I can trust myself to be around you.”

Nicolò takes a step into the room. “I told you I was ready, Yusuf,” he says. “Or, maybe not told you but I think I made it clear enough. You certainly made it clear you thought I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You were half-asleep, Nicolò, I cannot take advantage of you like that!”

“I kissed _you,”_ Nicolò retorts. He runs a hand through his hair. “Do you trust me with your life, Yusuf?”

“Yes.” No hesitation; he knows it in his bones.

“Then give me the courtesy of trusting me with my own.”

Yusuf sighs. “I could not be certain–”

“I have been trying to show you every day since,” Nicolò says. “Everything I see you might like, every bit of news I think might lighten your heart – and I didn’t want to _ask_ again because I did not wish to be rebuffed like someone who did not know what he was asking.”

“But you and Amir…”

Nicolò rolls his eyes. “He is from your homeland. And yes, I am sure you saw the way he looks at me, from the way you greeted us, but it meant I felt secure in telling him how I feel about you and he has been _helping_ me to find gifts for you.” 

Yusuf thinks he might actually die. He has assumed the whole time that Nicolò’s silence represented disinterest; instead, here he is, presented with full evidence of that interest, because Nicolò has been trying to give him space, just as he has been trying to give it to Nicolò.

Nicolò sighs, all the fight draining out of him. “We need to talk about this,” he says. “Are you still leaving?”

Yusuf looks at his bag. It is small and sad on their bed. “No.”

“Good. Then I will make dinner.” He glances to the window. “It is almost time for maghrib.”

He leaves Yusuf in there, alone. Yusuf prays but his heart is not in it; his mind spins around what Nicolò has just told him, and he knows they are both at fault but he has been assuming that Nicolò’s inexperience is the same as naivety and they are not the same at all.

Yusuf stays in the bedroom until dinner, not out of cowardice but because he is turning things over in his mind. What if he had trusted Nicolò, after the dream? What if he had rounded the fire, any number of times?

They eat in silence and Nicolò cleans up, after, as Yusuf fetches his sketchbook. He draws Amir from memory – which turns out to be an unflattering sketch, tinged as it is by his hurt and jealousy, and Nicolò nibbles at the baklava, watches him from under his lashes. Yusuf sets down his quill, once, opens his mouth, and Nicolò shakes his head.

Yusuf has a thousand questions, a thousand thoughts, and as his quill flows across the parchment, he orders them in his mind. By the time they are readying themselves for bed, he almost knows which question he wishes to ask first.

Nicolò indicates for Yusuf to climb in first and then lays in front of him. Yusuf doesn’t reach for him and so Nicolò huffs, turns on his side so they face each other. 

“We should talk about this,” Yusuf says into the quiet space between them. It is dark, sure, but there is light enough from the moon that he can see Nicolò’s eyes.

“Not tonight,” Nicolò replies. “We say too many things in the dark, thinking they do not count that way. This conversation will have meaning, Yusuf.”

Yusuf lets out a sigh and Nicolò reaches, stroking soft fingers along his cheekbone. Yusuf wants to kiss him – it would be so easy to lean in – but holds himself back.

“I’m sorry,” Nicolò says. “I do want you to know that, tonight. I should have said something sooner.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Yusuf replies and this simple exchange of apologies loosens something in him. “For a lot of things, but especially for not trusting you to know your own–”

He cuts himself off. Nicolò takes his hand.

“I know my heart well enough to know who it belongs to,” he says, and the words are sweeter than anything he has brought Yusuf, these past months. “Sleep now, ya albi. We will talk about this tomorrow, I promise.”

Yusuf pulls Nicolò closer, tangles their legs together and when Nicolò’s arms go around him, he is not sure whether he wants to cry or laugh or both, really. Eventually, he falls asleep, his face buried in Nicolò’s chest, his love’s heartbeat against his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about the lack of sex y'all but probably gonna wrap up this mini-series with prompt 26 so 😏😏😏
> 
> also! it is so much harder to do one whole fic a day rather than one chapter of a long wip a day! i did not realise! (i'm still trying to catch up lol)
> 
> also also! i'm doing my best to respond to comments, i am like 100 behind across all my fic, so i am not ignoring you all, ilu, and your comments make me happy 🥰 thank you all for reading too!!


End file.
